


Heaven is High and the Earth is Wide

by lexicale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, Genderswap, Incest, Sibling Incest, Winsister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexicale/pseuds/lexicale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As wide open as the untamed west is, the Winchesters are always trapped between a rock and a hard place. Sam can't escape the trappings of her gender, and Dean is irrevocably in love with his sister.</p><p>A western!AU with always-a-girl!Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven is High and the Earth is Wide

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt found [here](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/75719.html?thread=2131655#t2131655).

Most people never know that Sam is a girl.

Whenever she rides into town, her long legs to either side of her saddle, swinging down with all the dirty swagger of a man, they don't look twice at her. A couple times people have made the mistake of taking her for an easy mark -- willow thin as she is, her broad shoulders still too small to look big for a man -- but she disabuses them of that notion pretty quick.

Dean's not entirely sure who's fault it is. His own, his dad's, or Sam's.

Sam insists there's no fault at all. She doesn't talk about her short hair, or her small bosom bound tight against her ribcage, or the fact that the last time she wore a dress was when she was too small to choose her own clothes, or protest what others put on her. Dean had done his best raising her, or, at least, he believed.

The disguise is off now, early in the morning and Sam having just rolled out of bed. She looks like herself, somewhere between a man and a woman as she gets dressed for the day, treating her body as little more than utility(something that Dean hates more than he hates her stupid, mean-as-shit horse). She's packing knives onto herself, and she's careful, so at least there's that. She's more for preparation than him, never rushing in, never taking chances with her life. She hates that Dean does, but it's the best part of the job to him, that rushing feeling of _life_ pumping in his veins, chasing after that lingering sensation of _death_.

He's glad she doesn't take chances though.

His horse is his freedom, his drink his only reprieve, and his guns his bread and butter, but there ain't anything in the world he loves more than his sister.

It's been three months since he last saw her, Dean hunting with their father while Sam was away on one of her sojourns. She does that now and again -- runs off to wherever's big enough on the frontier to have a library and hides herself away, pretends to be a man that doesn't hunt down evil in the night. The last couple years it's always Genoa, and only Dean knows the full reason why. 

John sent Dean to collect her, the minute they got fresh word on the location of Sam Colt, John turning his horse north while he told Dean to go to Nevada and bring Sam back. Dean hates playing messenger boy, sniffing out the trail of a skinshifter during his ride west as a kind of justification, but he found her before he found the monster. Dean's not certain she's less of a pain to deal with, though, having to drag her back to the room he bought himself at the inn when he finally caught up to her the night before.

At the moment, leaning back in his chair, he's just grateful that she didn't try to jump out the window in the middle of the night. He's sipping on some old rum, the taste is dirty and bitter, but it's all a man can get, this far west.

Sam's putting on her undergarments, mostly boy's clothes and the bandages around her chest. He watches her stripe them over her chest, around and around again until the flesh compresses and he sees her wince, sees her suck in air and grit her teeth.

"Don't," he says with a frown, letting his chair tip forward to clunk against the ground. 

"Dean," she sighs, the conversation a familiar one, and Sam's always been better around words than him. Dean doesn't underestimate himself, and Sam would testify in public court that his ego doesn't need any stroking, but words and him have never exactly been friends. This is an unfortunate set of circumstances, because Sam uses words like she uses her knives -- careful and precise. He can pin her in a fight(most days), but in an argument, she has him cornered.

"You never listen," he mumbles, knowing he's beat before he starts. No one ever accused him of being anything less than stubborn though, and he's content to drag himself over Sam's hot coals again. It's the only path to be close to her.

She stops, pauses, and finally drops the bandages. She grabs her robe(a stretch of blue China silk, something that had cost Dean two guns and all of the bounty he'd earned dragging in a man on the run, but it was worth it to see her drape it over her shoulders like it was meant to be there), and lets it hang open, draping over her breasts but leaving a strip of skin down to the cut off union suit that went from her waist down to her knees.

She crosses her arms, almost as tall of him, a long stretch of woman, and Dean feels that shameful flush churn in his gut, everything he knows he can't want. Not from the girl he played a hand in raising. He isn't the kind of man to make a person for himself.

"I'm listening," she says, her accent crisp and clear, something she picked up from a working girl from up north. Spent a few months practicing, drawing the Kansas out of her throat like a poison. She looks at him like he should believe her, that she'll actually give him her ear, but he isn't given to hope, because he and Sam fight like vipers, and when she says she's going to listen with her arms crossed like that, it means she's going to put up tongue lashing him by the end of this. But he lets his fool mouth open up anyways.

"I ain't saying that there's anything wrong with you. Or that you gotta wear dresses--"

"Bullshit."

"Sam!"

_"What?"_

He lets out a short puff of booze tinged breath, captivated by how frustrating his baby sister is. How smart, and how completely oblivious. He screws up his face, a nasty grimace as his lips press together, willing his voice to fight the whining tinge of his next words.

"...said you'd listen."

Her expression shifts, goes unusually soft for her. She always has to fight. There's not a lot of room in this world for a woman like her. Tall as a man, and just as strong. A woman who takes other women to bed. A woman who puts up fighting because she hates the injustice that people dole out on each other easy as breathing. The world beat any softness out of Sam, trying to mold her, and Dean knows why she hates when he talks like this. He feels grateful, at least, that he still gets the last of her softness. That she still sees him as the only person that would never hit her where she was tender.

"It ain't about dresses. I don't care about you lookin' like a frilly doll. What you are--...It's just fine, is all I'm sayin'." He reaches for the last of his rum, swallows it down and runs his tongue over his teeth. "I'm jus' sayin', you don't gotta be a man, to be what you are."

"What I am?" She looks a little anticipatory now, knows all the words for women like her. Dean remembers Sam's first love. The girl that told the whole town about how the boy she had taken to bed had no cock. Told everyone that 'he' was a she, and a deviant. The devil's whore. Dean remembers finding his little sister in tears in the bed after the girl had run from their temporary abode. Dean never had words for what Sam is or isn't, but he's never mistaken her for anything but a romantic, and he can't judge her for the way she loves.

"Don't get me wrong, I know it's hard. It's not like this desert has a lot of sympathy for us. People don't like to see anything different from what they expect. But jus' because you're not like a prairie wife don't mean you're not a girl. You don't have to pretend to be a man. You can be--" He motions to her awkwardly, not sure how to say what he wants to, but he hates well enough the way she hurts herself, crushing her chest because if the towns they passed through knew she was a woman they'd tear her to bits for sitting astride a saddle, let alone hunting down demons and criminals in the night. He knows her well enough to know this isn't her preference. If she wanted to be a man, he'd settle into it. But she doesn't. She just doesn't have a choice.

Her eyes flick away, shifting uncomfortably. It's something new, at least. Something different from the usual way this conversation goes, when she thinks he's like their dad, trying to convince her to grow her hair out, trying to convince her to wear the dresses of their long dead mother. Dean loves their dad, but he never wants Sam to see him like that.

"All I'm sayin' is, you don't always have to--...People give you trouble, you don't have to act like you're all alone. I got your back."

"I just..." she starts, wanders off. Her throat works tenderly, and Dean follows the flex of muscles. She's strong, nothing like the women Dean manages to talk into the sack when a job is done. But he's also nothing like what Sam's looking for either, even if he weren't her brother. Even if he weren't twisted up and wrong inside.

Sam shuts her eyes.

"I don't want my problems to be your problems."

He gets up, and her eyes open only slightly, slivers of hazel under short lashes, her broad jaw giving that illusion of masculinity, even though there's no stubble there. Dean never sees a man, though. He just sees Sam.

He puts a hand on the side of her neck.

"You're an idiot," he says firmly, voice a little gruff with how low it is, reminding him of their father. He shakes his head, banishing that thought and speaking clearer. "Your problems _are_ my problems, and this? You? You ain't a problem. Those assholes are the problem, and you gotta know, Sam, there ain't no way I'm gonna leave you to 'em."

She looks up, a scant inch, but sometimes, when it's like this, he remembers the tiny girl that used to follow him around when he'd gone through his first growth spurt. He doesn't miss the girl, but he does miss the way she used to believe in him.

She presses her head to his chest, and it's far too easy to move his arms around her. She's substantial in his embrace, nothing slight or curvy. He shuts his eyes, hating the way he always compares her to others, and hopes she never sees inside his devilish head, fucked as it is. Sam is more than just his only companion. She's more than a partner, or the man to watch his back. She's the only success story in his life, and he couldn't stand to see the last of that little-girl-hero-worship wink out of her eyes. 

Dean's burned so many things to become the person he is, he can't sacrifice the last person who actually thinks he's worth a damn.

\-----

Mrs. Jessica Moore is the wife of the deputy sheriff, and there's more than one reason that she and Sam can't ever be more than a casual affair. Dean's used to standing watch, guarding the door of whatever room Sam takes her lovers to. There's too much danger of people discovering his sister's proclivities, and after the first few brushes with trouble, Dean's taken to being a sentinel.

This time, he's just watching the street while Sam and Mrs. Moore say their goodbyes. 

It's a shame, because Mrs. Moore is the only woman Sam's found that won't let slip her secret or keep it only for pay -- rather, she just genuinely likes Dean's sister. Given all the grief Sam's been through, he sometimes wishes they could be more than infrequent lovers. He can tell in the way Mrs. Moore watches Sam that it's more than just lust, that the other woman _wants_ it to be more, but their situation doesn't give them any space to make it more. As it is, they say their goodbyes and Sam moves out of the alley with her things.

They make their way out of town, Sam loaded up with more books that'll just be a pain to carry, and she bucks off any conversation that Dean tries to start. It's as unpleasant a ride as imaginable, and just because Dean loves his sister doesn't mean he always loves her company. By the time they catch up with the skinshifter, four days later, the hunt is a welcome relief.

It's a routine that he and Sam can slip into easy as breathing. Sam's always been good at problem solving, at catching the odd thing out. She can spot the clue, the hint that'll lead them to their prey. She has a patience for it that Dean's never cottoned to. He can hustle money, turn any lady's head, hunt the wind itself and chase it down, but asked to sit and stare at a problem hours at a time and Dean's more than likely to just start setting things on fire on the off chance he'll burn the right thing. 

It's the reason he misses her when he has to hunt alone. One of the many.

Even when they do have a lead, flushing out a shifter is never easy. There's always the distinct possibility of accidentally knifing some unfortunate bastard over a misunderstanding, if the shifter moves forms too quick. It's mostly about laying traps -- trying to catch the monster out. After all, Dean wouldn't have to hunt them if they weren't doing something bad already. Hell, maybe there are some nice shifters out there that Dean's never had to meet up with.

This one? It likes to murder kids by pretending to be their parents, something that Dean takes particular umbrage to. He doesn't talk about it much, but he has this soft spot for kids, and he's had to see the parents sobbing their way to the gallows, charged with a crime they didn't commit. This time, the monster isn't getting away.

Once Sam's determined the beast's target, it's just a matter of luring it out. Dean hates using a kid as bait, especially one that has no idea what's going on, but it's the only way they're going to stop this thing. It's worth it, for the lives they'll end up saving.

The whole affair leaves them with a nasty case of dead body, the kid safe and the shifter splayed out and pinned with a silver knife in their room at the inn, and Dean finds himself out in the stable, trying to get him and Sam's rides ready to go.

Three in the morning is no time to be dealing with a willful mare.

To be fair, Dean hates Ruby just about any time of day. She's stubborn and hateful, always tossing her head or kicking him when he has his back turned. He still has a nasty yellow mark where she scored him with her teeth when he was bringing her some oats for dinner. He can't help but compare the ornery mare to his own gelding, placid and calm, a model citizen amongst horseflesh.

Sam would never let him get rid of Ruby though. She rescued the horse from a cruel man with a whip years ago, when Sam was still just a young girl. She'd broken the man's arm when he'd gone to whip the horse again, has the mark across her palm from snatching the thin leather out of the air, mid whip, and Ruby still carries the scars all over her dark body, hairless stripes across her patchy coat, thin white lines where blood was spilled. Dean has no doubt that's where Ruby gained her hatred of all humans. Well, all humans except Sam.

"Hush," his sister says as she comes up, reaching up for Ruby's soft nose. "Hush now, hush...Gotta get out of here quietly, my girl."

Ruby begins to quiet slowly, still pacing sideways, back legs shifting her back and forth until Dean pushes the lead into Sam's hand and goes to get Cas, still waiting polite and patient over at the fence. Sam strokes Ruby's long face until the horse calms and goes still, her greyed out eye facing towards Dean, the good one towards the town. Dean's offered to buy Sam a better ride, one that still has two working eyes and is less likely to buck her off when she's in a mood, but Sam'll hear none of it. 

Those two are a pair, and Dean just has to accept that.

Once his bags are clipped onto Cas's saddle, he grabs the pommel, hoisting himself up and over, feet pressing into the wide stirrups. He pats his horse's withers, praise for being a better beast than the black devil. The muscles under his hand twitch, as if flicking off flies, and Dean scratches in the horse's mane. 

"Hurry it up, Sam," he reminds, his sister having to take her time with her damaged ride, having to settle her before pulling herself up onto the mare's back. This time Ruby only shuffles uneasily, and doesn't throw Sam head over ass, something that happens with annoying frequency. It's a small mercy, the two of them having left a body in their room back at the inn, and no one to know it was a skinshifter and not your average citizen. The faster they're gone, the less likely they are to have the law on their trail.

The ride out of town is taken at a sedate pace, not wanting to raise any alarm, but by the time the sun is peeking out over the edge of the earth they're going at a full gallop, the miles passing quickly under the hooves of their horses. They can't go too long at that pace, not without tiring Ruby and Cas to exhaustion, and they slow to an easy canter, moving over the flatland to where the mesas crop up out of the horizon. It's only a day's travel east to the next town, but they can't take the risk, and turn more northerly, the intent to take them five days through the wilderness to Pleasonton, on the other side of the river. It's dry enough this time of year that they can ford it without much difficulty, and the crossing will hide their trail.

Dean's always hated camping out. Too much work, and too much effort to get set up, and always the threat of an errant snake hiding out under the rock he chooses to bed by. Not to mention the lack of drink and women and the easy laugh of men around the poker table. 

Sam, though, always enjoys their nights under the stars. There's no expectations of her here, and she doesn't bother to hide the few remaining signs of her female nature. She goes shoeless by the fire that Dean builds, long legs sticking out from her riding chaps, the lower fasteners undone and draped to either side of her. What's left of her hair tickles the points of her jaw, and she chews on her thumbnail, watching the fire tickle and dance like it hypnotizes her. Always lost in thought, his little sister.

"You know when we're supposed to hear from him?" she asks as Dean finally settles in with some cuts of salted meat. He chews on his without bothering to pass her any. She won't eat when she's like this, too busy thinking. 

There's no question of which 'him' she's referring to.

"Dad'll check in when he's good and ready," Dean replies, always uncomfortable about talking about their father with Sam, hating trying to juggle his family like a snake in one hand and a mongoose in the other. 

"Chasing after Samuel Colt...S'a fool's errand." Her speech slurs a little, a sure sign she needs rest.

"It's worth a try. That gun..." He doesn't bother continuing. They both know the legend of the gun. They both know the power of the monster they're hunting, whatever it is. The hunt that comes before all other hunts. Sam just grunts like it means nothing, like this isn't the first clue they've had in years in the search to end their mother's killer. 

She shoves a stick into the fire, sending up a burst of hot embers. Dean curses _'bitch'_ in irritation, and Sam leans over to grab her food. Dean supposes he spoiled her a bit. Sam's a good hunter, and a better person, always wanting to do right, but she can also be a brat from time to time, especially when it comes to their dad.

"Bed down. I don't want to listen to your belly achin' when I kick you up before dawn. We got a long way to go." He lays back, scooting down to lean against a rock. He pulls his hat down over his face, the warmth of the fire soaking through the cotton of his pants, the brim of his hat smelling of soft leather and sticky sweat of a long day's ride.

It's nearly half an hour until Sam edges into his space, right when he's about to drift off. He grumbles in irritation, but it's just a front. She tosses an arm over his middle, and he can't help but wrap an arm around her.

Dean won't tell anyone that he wants her to stay right there.

\-----

There's something about a long ride that Dean loves.

Still hates the camping out, but the ride? That's as good as gold.

He loves the feel of his horse's hooves beating down the ground, legs stretching and collecting rhythmically, the steady in-out of breath under Dean as he holds the reins in one hand, the other resting on his thigh or grasping the pommel. Cas has a smooth gait, a horse that worked in a carnival before Dean picked him up, trained in English pageant style riding. He's swift and graceful, if a bit finicky with his feet. 

Not as good as the great black stallion that his dad rode in Dean's youth, but there's not a lot in this world that could compare to Impala's long legged stride; the way he ate up ground like he was chasing down the devil. 

The white gelding is a good horse, though, and Dean has to remind himself of that when they're fording the Little Blue. The river is low but rushing, and Dean rides down the bank looking for a good place to ford. The idea is to move north through the shallows of the river to cover their tracks, so anyone following them won't know which way they're headed: to Pleasonton to the north, or Tillingrock straight east. But Cas other ideas, objecting strenuously to the muddy river water.

"You ain't a princess, now git," Dean mutters, slapping the horse's withers lightly with the curl of his reins, and Cas dances over the loose soil next to the river.

He frowns deeper when Sam and Ruby pass him, the mare merrily kicking up water in the shallows as she bounces her head up and down, clearly having fun.

"You really want them to show us up?" Dean complains, yanking the reins hard right to jerk Cas's head to the left, but the gelding has never quite adjusted to riding Western style, tossing his head with the added stress of the bubbling river.

Eventually Dean just has to dismount, growling out curses as he sloshes through the water, feeling it soak into his boots and the cotton underneath. It's a slow, unpleasant march, Dean leading his horse up the river, and he tries not to imagine Cas looking pleased with himself. Sam and Ruby ride back and forth up ahead, his sister having no problem with her usually ornery beast. They stop occasionally to drink, Sam leaning back in the saddle while Ruby slurps her fill. 

Eventually, when Dean is tired of walking, and his feet feel like blocks of ice despite the heat in the air, he calls to cross at a calm point. The water comes up to the bottom of the horses' chests, and Sam's feet drag through as she crosses. Dean is less fortunate, having to wade it and lead Cas all the way across. When they get to the other side, Dean is dripping from his chest down, and Sam is smiling like a little bitch. Dean doesn't even offer a cursory insult as he yanks himself up into the saddle, ignoring Cas's complaints about the sudden shift of weight. Dean tugs off his shirt, spreading it out over Cas's neck in front of him, willing to ride bare-chested for a bit. Better that than stay sodden for hours.

His boots are still damp the next day, and it puts him in a sour mood. By the time they pull into town, he's eager to find a bar and a bed and a wench if he can't woo a lady looking for the charm of a mysterious stranger.

Sam is keeping to herself, and normally Dean'd keep a closer eye, but he's too tired and too desperate for the pleasure of a drink to pay too much mind.

They tie the horses up outside the inn, a saloon on the ground floor, spilling light and sound out into the dusky streets. It's Dean's kind of place, dirty and raunchy, ready and raring to go. A place he can settle into and take his fill.

Sam positions herself into a corner, settling down and tucking her nose into a book, one boot up on the table, and Dean heads for the bar.

It only an hour or so before Dean's half way to drunk and working into a willing and eager body, thighs wrapped around his waist. No blushing virgin this, and just as well -- Dean prefers his women to know what they're doing and what they're getting into. He learned as a youth the mistake of wooing a lady too well, having to face the tears when he was less of a suitor than she'd hoped. 

He's finished himself once and bringing the lady to her second completion when he hears the first hint of a ruckus downstairs. 

"Hell'sat?" he slurs, his fingers pressed deep in his companion's damp folds, distracted from the kisses he was laying on her belly by the crash.

"Bar fight," she murmurs, a bit desperate. "Happens now and again." She arches her hips up for more friction, and Dean wants to give her what she wants (he likes sex, likes finding his pleasure as much as the next man, but he likes seeing that impressed look on women's faces; just as good to see them buck themselves silly, and usually guarantees him a second ride later, when he's recovered some), but something cold washes through him, and he'll find no hardness now. He slips his hand out.

"My--" he starts, but isn't quite sure what to say. Sister? Brother? Partner? "--family's down there."

It takes him a moment to tug on his clothes, and he's cursing himself and his needy body when he hears the unmistakable sound of a shot firing, and then it's like the blood stops moving in his veins. He's only got one shoe on when he stumbles down the stairs, blood running cold when he sees Sam pinned against a wall, shirt ripped and held in the meaty fist of a man towering over her. Dean leaps over the banister without pause, straight into the man.

He feels the solid impact all through him, even while his brain is catching up with the scene. Sam pressed into a corner, and where her shirt's half torn Dean could see the top of her chest, a red mark on the spur of her jaw. He doesn't even have to wonder why here, why now. She didn't bind her chest. For once, at the worst possible time, she actually listened to her dumb as horse shit older brother and left her chest unbound, and it didn't take more than that for some drunk idiots to take umbrage. There's a dead man on the floor with a bullet hole smoking in his chest, and Dean has no doubt that Sam took him down, no Winchester ever letting anyone take them without a fight.

But there are also other images rushing through Dean's head.

Old fucking drunks trying to teach Sam what it means to be a woman, trying to prove that all she needs is their cocks in her to make her wear a dress and bear a baby.

Because Dean was too tired to have her back, like he'd promised.

There's a crash behind him, and he flinches back from his mission to beat in the face of the man under him. When he looks behind him, he sees Sam holding the remnants of a chair, the man that was coming at Dean with a knife laid out on the floor. Sam dodges a hit like an adder dancing with a jackal, reaching down for her own skinning knife, but Dean already knows this isn't the place to make a stand. They're good -- the best fighters in the bar by far, but numbers are numbers, and they have no way to thin the crowd, take them one at a time. Besides, someone's sure to have run for the lawman, and it'll only be a few minutes before there's even more men in the bar, those with the idea of justice at their backs. Dean might live through prison for starting a bar fight, but Sam's got a dead man's blood on her hands and the audacity to refuse to lower her head, and there's no way they'll let her off easy.

She's too proud to let anyone tame her, just like Ruby, but Dean knows that when men can't tame a horse, they'll settle for breaking it. 

Unruly as she is, Dean always wants Sam to run free.

He gets up, grabbing her wrist and yanking her back. She squawks and almost clocks him before she sees who has her, and Dean is running for the door, his other boot and his belt forgotten. There're shouts behind them, and by the time he's through the doors there's the gunshots. 

"Go!" he commands, throwing Sam at Ruby, and for once she listens (and if Dean believed that God ever looked over their miserable smear of existence in this lousy desert with anything other than contempt, he'd be thanking him), jumping up as Dean unwinds the reins, throwing them up to her. Sam lifts her gun as the men run out, and Ruby rears up in fright. Dean's jumping on Cas's back, and hears Sam fire a shot into the crowd, keeping them off the siblings for a moment while Dean frees his horse from the stand.

"Sam!" he yells, afraid for a moment that Ruby will fight -- that she'll throw Sam for the hundredth time and this time with no chance to get back up. But the mare seems to know when to get the hell away, because when her front hooves meet the earth again, she's off like a dark shot, rushing through the main street at full tilt.

Dean follows with his head ducked down to avoid the gunfire, barely blinking as his horse's mane stings against his face. 

His eyes are fixed on Sam.

\-----

She doesn't stop for hours.

Dean knows she has to be as tired as him, and the adrenaline only lasts for an hour or so. But she doesn't stop, doesn't slow until most of the night has passed, and Dean doesn't even know _where_ they are. He doesn't question it though, doesn't try to slow or stop her a minute sooner.

She dismounts, and she's shaking.

"Fuck," he says, nothing else there to say, throwing himself off of Cas's back. He doesn't bother with securing the horse, just strides up to Sam. Some part of him knows that he shouldn't grab her, shouldn't crush her in after what happened, but that part is shouted down by that big brother voice, the absolute need to have his sibling close enough that he knows she's still whole. Close enough to protect.

She doesn't fight him, or flinch. She turns into him, a reminder that he's still the exception, still the person she trusts, even after everything.

She's still shaking, and she shouldn't trust him. It's not something he deserves, not when he wants her like he does, like those men had.

"Dean." She says his name without any real meaning or purpose. It's less of a name and more of a prayer.

"Fuck, Sam, I'm sorry." This is his fault. She had this down. She had a _system_. Sam didn't love binding her chest or trying to pretend to be a man, but it was the only thing that allowed her to live the life she chose, unharrassed. It worked for her, even if she had to make sacrifices. Dean had stepped in and messed that up. "I'm sorry."

"Ain't your fault," her Kansas twang falls out, shuddering and too weak, nothing like the security of her over rehearsed cadence that he's used to.

"It is. S'my fault. I shouldn't-- I--"

"Fuck, shut up. Please, I can't--...I can't have this be your fault. I need you to be--I need--"

He's not sure he understands, but he tightens his arms. Whatever she needs, he can be that. He can be anything, for his family.

And for a while, he's just this. Just a man standing still in the desert night, under the dry stars, as unmoving as the rock. He's just a body to form a lee, the perfect shadow to hide in. If she'd let him, he'd hide her forever, but she'd never let him. She'd never want him to.

"...it was my decision," she says, voice a little hoarse, and Dean's sure that it's years later. "I just--...what you said. But it wasn't your fault. I...wanted it to be true."

"But you wouldn't have, if I hadn't told you to."

"Told me to do shit, Dean." She sniffs, and he winces a little, knowing that wet spot on his shirt is her snot. "You said what you said, but I was the one that wanted it. Wanted it _before_ you said anything. I just..."

He waits, hears the hollow creak of the wind through the dry brush, and the cackling laugh of the wild dogs in the distance. He waits, expecting her to finish, but it seems like she's forgotten that she ever started speaking, because she's going still and soft, a little limper as her quaking peters out.

"...just?" he pushes, wanting to know.

"I'm just tired of this," she replies, instantly, surprising him. "I like who I get to be, livin' this life. I _do_. I like...helping people. I miss living in one place, miss not being scared when I go to sleep, but I like riding with you. I like being this person. It's just not fair I have to be a man to do it. I just...I don't know what's _wrong_ with me!" And her voice breaks then, a sob like he hasn't heard from her in years.

He hasn't felt the damp pain of his sister sobbing into his shirt since that night seven years ago, Sam hugging her knees on a bed, certain that no woman could ever love her like she wanted them to. It's not a sensation he likes.

"Sam..."

"It's not fair!" she complains, against him or the men in the bar, their dad or their absent god, Dean doesn't know. "How'm I supposed to do this? How'm I supposed to _live_ like this? I just want--I just want--I just want--" It's like she's trapped in a loop, and Dean doesn't know how to shake her out of it. He doesn't know how to break down this weapon. Doesn't know how to put her back together again.

He curls his hand in her hair, gripping the too-soft strands.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with you," he grinds out, too much anger in his body, and no ability to take it out on the men that deserve it, the men that make his sister feel like the freak she isn't.

" _Everything_ is wrong with me," she mutters, despondent through her tears.

"Ain't _nothing_ wrong with you," he repeats, firm on that. He's known her since she was born. He's known her all her life, and the only thing wrong with Sam is that she's too good. The only thing wrong with her is that she belongs in a better world.

"You know that isn't true. You've seen how I lust for my own sex. I'm broken. I lust for my own sex and the only man I could stand to be with is my own flesh and blood. I'm _broken."_

Dean pulls in a breath, not sure what to do with that, because he knows he shouldn't touch it. She's upset, and he knows she means it in an innocent way. 'Be with' is ambiguous, and it's more than just the fact that he doesn't want to gamble. He doesn't want to bring her down into this.

"...Dean?" she asks, some time later, and Dean blinks, because he went away for a moment.

"Y-yeah?"

There's silence again, and he feels stiff, and it's not just because he's held this position for a long time now. 

"...you ain't gonna say something?" she asks, voice too soft.

"Nothin' to say, Sammy. There ain't nothing wrong with you. Don't know how many times I got to say it."

He feels her tense, and then she's moving, and he doesn't have time to dodge her lips on his, a wet, messy press, uncoordinated and uncomfortable. Doesn't stop the frisson of heat up his spine, like someone's put fire to him. Doesn't stop the way his hand clutches in her hair, and he almost pulls her in before he remembers to shove her away.

She stumbles back, boots skidding for a second, then she's just standing there, fingers curled into fists and feet braced against the ground, like she's readying herself for another fight.

Dean's breath catches at the look in her eyes -- defiant, but hungry. Desiring his contempt. 

Wanting him to hate her like everyone else does, wanting him to hate her so that she can stop caring and he'd give her anything she asked for, except this.

"Fuck, Sammy," he mutters, lifting a hand to wipe his lips, even as he wants to take the taste of her in.

"Yeah," she replies, sullen, hateful. "Now you know." She's still waiting.

He doesn't reply.

"Goddamn it, Dean." Her hands clench tighter. "Say something."

"Don't know what you want me to say, Sammy." It's hard to keep his voice even, but he knows he has to. This is a test he can't fail.

"God _damn it!"_ Her angry voice carries, but they're far enough away from the town, and there's only the Utah wilderness to hear them. She strides up and grabs his vest. "What's it going to take for you to get it, you sorry son of a bitch?"

"Ain't happenin', Sammy."

"The hell are you--"

"I ain't gonna push you away."

"You just--"

"Not like _that."_

They're at an impasse for a moment, but he knows she still doesn't get it. She's searching his eyes, waiting for the hit, the punch. Waiting for the hate. She's too used to it, and Dean's the last shoe waiting to drop. He gets it. She wants him to hate her, because then she has nothing left to hope for, and she can stop waiting for the last rug to be pulled out from under her.

He lifts a hand to her fist in his clothes, covering it.

"...you ain't broken. You save people. You get upset when we can't save 'em. You...fight people to save a damned horse. So what you wanna fuck women? Women are great. I want to fuck them. I get where you're coming from."

"And you?" she pushes.

"And me what?"

"And me wanting to fuck _you."_

He swallows hard and dry, and this is harder. It's a harder line to walk, to let her know there's nothing wrong with her while still keeping himself from giving in to the too good temptation she's offering.

"You don't."

"Don't tell me what I want, Dean."

"You _can't."_

"Why? Why not? Cause I'm your perfect little angel? Your good little sister? Take me off your damned display case, Dean. I'm not your pretty little doll to keep and take care of. You're gonna have to see the dirt on me, some day."

"Who says?" he growls.

" _I_ say. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of...being too good. You're not seeing me. You're seeing the sister you _want_ to see."

"So you're some kind of different person? You're not the kid I caught crying when the girl she loved broke her heart? You're not the kid I've watched my _entire life?_ The kid I know better than anyone else?"

"No," she replies, too easily. "I'm not. You know why? Cause I'm not a _kid."_

The fire that lit up his spine is doused just as quick with ice water, a shock cold.

It's not like he's never thought about it, never realized his little sister was old enough to bleed her cycle or have her own ride, old enough to be considered of marriageable age, old enough to take people to bed and old enough to now even be considered a spinster. She's twenty two. Dean remembers all of those markers, watching her pass over them towards adulthood, but it's still hard to see her as anything other than the kid she used to be. It's not like he didn't want her to grow up, to have her independence. It's what he's been working most of his life for, in fact.

But she's not wrong. There's a part of him that still wants her to be innocent, as if she ever was. He wants to protect her. It's a mantra his blood chants with every pump.

"So you want me to see you like the girls I fuck, that it, Sam?" he asks, cruel as he means it, because he doesn't want her to push. 

She flinches, and he's glad and guilty at the same time.

"Fine," she says, tearing herself away, and he snatches her back without even thinking about it, without giving the order to his arms to move. "The hell?" she mutters, shifting a little uneasily, but she's not scared of him.

"...this just cause of me?" he asks, needing to know. "Cause of what I--"

"What you what?"

He doesn't reply, just scowls. He's unable to put his thoughts to the air, hating the idea of them being out in the world, like something real, like something more than thought.

"Dean." Her hand raises, fingers touching his lips, light as horseflies, a tickle of flesh against flesh, and his guts go embarrassingly weak, eyes rolling back a bit as his eyelids twitch shut. He lets out an unsteady breath. "Holy shit," she breathes, something like wonder in her voice. "You...want this too."

He wishes it were a question.

He opens his eyes.

"Never claimed to be good, Sam. But you--...I'm no girl."

"And I'm nothing like the girls you chase."

"It's _different_ , Sam. You don't-- It's more than clothes here. I got no tits. I'm a _guy." And your brother,_ he doesn't bother to add.

"You're the only guy I ever really--...How fucked is that? People been asking me to bed a man since I sprouted tits, but the only one I could ever imagine actually being with is my brother."

Dean shudders, hating the fact that his body sings with it.

"Too much time together, Sam. Ain't right."

"Ain't right," she repeats, an echo. "But still _is."_

He scowls, and he doesn't know what worked its way into them, because they shouldn't _both_ be like this. For a minute he entertains the idea that it's a hunt, that maybe this is something left over that's messed them up inside, but it's been _years_ for him, and Sam isn't looking at him with the glassy unknowledge of the controlled. She knows too well exactly who she is, and who she isn't.

"Can't do this to you," he grinds out, voice tight.

"The hell are you _doing_ to me?" She swallows, and the night is light enough that he can see her face, cast silvery and blue. He wants to touch her skin. "I'm not your kid, Dean. You can...You can say no. You don't want this--" She looks tight, hurt. "--say so. But don't...don't push me away for me. Not if you want this. Tired of being alone, Dean."

"You ain't alone. I'm right _here."_

"And what about when you aren't?"

"You talkin' 'bout tonight? 'Bout--... Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just dumped you there. I told you I had your back, then I didn't."

"I can take care of myself."

"I couldn't take on a crowd like that alone. Couldn't take it on even together. There's no shame in being overwhelmed." Dean remembers when he was almost dragged to the gallows by a posse. He remembers the clutching relief when his dad saved him, cutting the rope from around his neck. He knows that there are forces you can't fight against, but Sam has to pretend to be stronger than anyone, because they don't let her have weaknesses.

Her face pinches, and he knows she hates it.

"Hey," he says, cupping her cheek. "We're family. Don't know why you can't admit it to me. You can hit a fly at ninety paces and throw a man twice your size. It ain't like you're a wilting flower, Sam. _No one_ wins a fight when it's one against ten."

"Wish I could. Wish I--...It scares me that things like that can happen again. That I can't train and get good enough and just... _deal_ with it."

Dean knows how she means. It's awful to think that the world can just keep taking his family from him, and that no matter how good he gets with his guns, no matter how hard he presses Cas to run, no matter how much he trains or fights or wins, he can still lose. He wishes he were invincible. He wishes Sam could always be safe, always be herself, with no one to judge or punish or hurt.

That the world can't just give him that is terrifying.

"Can't promise you much," he says, her cheek feeling smooth and taut under his hand. "But I can promise you this much. Whenever we go, we go together."

She nods, and that, at least, will always remain true.

\-----

Somehow, the conversation manages to stop there.

Dean doesn't know how he manages to swing that, but he's grateful for the reprieve if for no other reason than that they're both exhausted, coming off a long ride even before the fight at the bar and running on fumes. They bed down behind a line of scrub brush, and Dean's embarrassingly glad that Sam doesn't seek him out in the night.

He's not sure, tired as he is, coming out of a dream, he wouldn't reach for her, let her have whatever small parts of him she doesn't already own.

He doesn't know how to talk to her, after that. Not on the long ride through the mesas, not during their search for water or their attempts to figure out where they are, or where they should head. It's not exactly awkward, but it's not comfortable either. There's something hanging over them, and they both have to deal with it. Dean almost wants to avoid it, but he has a sense that this isn't something he can escape, so he doesn't bother. Sam can see he isn't running, just delaying, so she doesn't push him.

Lost in the desert isn't the time.

Eventually, by the time they're running low on their supplies, they finally figure out where they are. They crash hard in Boiling Rock, sleeping for half a day before they even bother to emerge from their room. Dean has to spend a good sum on new boots, and the rest of what they have on supplies. It's a hard line to dodge, and Dean might not mind living on the edge, but this is always something that bothers him. Too many hard memories of going hungry, of pushing the bounds of what they could survive, when they were kids, and he feels the press to get some cash, which means a different kind of hunt.

They don't often get paid to waste a ghost, but chasing down a local horse thief isn't too hard, and pays a good sum. It doesn't get Dean's blood pumping, doesn't really make him feel like the big hero, but it'll do. This time it's a man that killed his wife, and Dean feels a bit more conviction. Sam is still quiet, though Dean doesn't know if that's because of what happened between them or because of research. She's always quiet when she's tracking something down. 

It's Dean's job to watch her back when she's this far into her own head.

The job only takes two days, the coward not even half as good at hiding as the Winchesters are at tracking.

Money in his pockets and food in his packs, Dean doesn't waste any time getting them out of town and moving on, though not before their dad gets a telegram to him -- just two words: Sweetwater, Wyoming. Sam, thankfully, doesn't put up any protest, Ruby taking up position behind Cas as they move on from the western territories and head back east.

"Think he's waiting for us?" she asks one night, poking at the fire.

"You know Dad," Dean responds, neither here nor there.

Samuel Colt's been a bastard to find, the firearms maker just as travel hungry as the Winchesters, and the last news Dean and John had gotten indicated that Wyoming was the way to head, but nothing more specific. John had taken off in the middle of the night, giving Dean the order to head west and pick Sam up. He half hopes to find his dad, half dreads it. Hopes because he misses the man, and wants to know he's still okay. Dreads because John and Sam fight like cats and dogs, and Dean's always the one who has to pick up the pieces of Sam that John leaves scattered across the floor. 

And now isn't a good time.

Sam sits astride Ruby, the two of them taking the day slow. There's little cover, and Dean doesn't want the horses to overheat. His sister is staring at Ruby's withers, mind somewhere else, as it so often is. 

Looking at her, Dean can't isolate the moment when he wanted to have Sam more than he had the right to ask -- he's pretty sure he loved her when they were kids, and Sam always said that Dean was the only man she'd marry. It was just supposed to be cute though, the two of them too little to know any better. 

They're not little now, and Dean is old enough to have a wife of his own, maybe a couple of kids. He has no illusions about his life -- he never expected any such comforts. He'd never put much thought to Sam having a husband. The idea was preposterous to him as a child, and if he's honest with himself, he was relieved, when she got older, that she had no desire to marry. 

Now he's a grown man, traveling with a grown woman at his side, and sometimes he wonders if that's it. If they just spent too much time together, got too close, the both of them too used to each other's bodies to grow apart like siblings should. It's not just that, though, because Dean beds women often, finds no sexual frustration. Sam gets her relief more rarely, but that doesn't make her desire of Dean make sense.

After all, even if he weren't her brother, he has the wrong body for her preference. He is, apparently, the exception.

Sam's his exception too. The only woman he's ever wanted more from than just a respite.

By the time they're crossing the border into Wyoming he's halfway convinced himself to go ahead with it, to take all the sinful things he shouldn't have. He puts it down to the heat though, and sleeps as far from Sam across their camps as he can. She watches him through the fire with disappointment in her eyes, but he hopes that it's just a trick of the flickering light.

Dean's always hated hurting her, but it's never stopped him before.

It's always been better to keep Sammy at arm's length, even if she wants to crawl into him, take up every little speck of space. And Dean can't even kid himself, because if he gives in at all, he'll let her have everything

The air finally begins to cool during their trek north, the sun less oppressive on their skin. Dean's skin burns and flakes, already a little leathery at his age, but Sam just goes a darker brown, even hiding under the brim of her hat. He's had a hard time spotting her face, these past few days, hat or hair obscuring her. She doesn't look like a man or a woman, but Dean finds her magnetic anyway, and doesn't like when she ducks away from his gaze, like there's something there to be ashamed of.

They collect rumors as they pass through settlements, whispered words of an iron railroad going no where, a crazy man from the eastern sea board with more money than sense. It's Colt, and it's some kind of ritual, but Dean doesn't know quite what. Sam just flicks him a look and says nothing at all.

It's only after they've crossed the Sweetwater river that the tension between them finally snaps, the two of them preparing to find their father and the gunmaker in the morning. 

It starts when Dean sees that she's not unpacking.

"C'mon," he urges, unloading Cas for the evening. "Gotta get settled. We're gonna need the rest."

"It's not that," she replies.

"Then what is it?"

"I'm leaving."

Dean furrows his brow, settling his saddle down on the ground, evening out the flaps to keep strain off the rigid back. It's not uncommon for Sam to vanish from time to time, the need to run sewn sharp into her skin, like she can escape her shadow if she just goes far enough, fast enough. Now's not the time though, and the way she says 'leaving' is different.

" 'hell you mean?" he asks, not stopping in his unloading.

"I mean that I don't want to go to Dad like this. All this hanging over us."

"Talk sense, girl."

 _"Dean,"_ she says with emphasis, giving him a dirty look. "Don't play dumb."

Dean sighs and has to dump the supplies in an unorganized pile on the ground, pushing himself up to stand and look at his pain in the ass little sister. He puts his hands on his hips.

"I'm not playin' dumb, Sam. I know there's been...stuff. I'm not pretending like there wasn't. I'm just not followin' you _leavin'_ when we're all of five miles out from Dad and Colt."

"Because I told you how I felt, and it's...It's obvious you don't feel the same way. And I refuse to follow you and Dad around the rest of my life, pining like some love struck fool."

Dean swallows a bit dryly, expression pinching.

"Not even gonna--" she starts, then shakes her head, smile rueful and full of _hurt,_ and she lifts a hand to fiddle with one of the few curls of her hair, turning back to Ruby. "Shoulda figured. I shoulda known you'd--"

She cuts off when he grabs her waist, pulling her back to him, her back to his chest. He's never wanted to drag her down with him, but he's not sure he can let go, either. He can't stomach the idea of her out there alone, even as strong and competent as she is. It's not that he doesn't trust her. It's that he doesn't trust the rest of them.

"Sam," he says gruffly, wishing he had her talent with words, wishing he could say the things he wants her to know without flubbing them or messing them up or sounding a fool. "It ain't like you think."

"It's hard to tell _what_ to think, Dean," she whispers, voice more feminine when she talks low. "You never _talk_ to me."

His nose is pressed against the sweaty curls at the back of her neck, and he can feel how tense her stomach is under his hands. He knows he doesn't have to be delicate with her. She can take him.

"I'm not good at things like this. I ruin things like this." He can feel her take in a breath, getting ready to speak, and he really just needs her to shut up for a moment, to let him gather enough sense to not lose himself in all the ways he loves her, in all the ways she frustrates the hell out of him. "Wait. I jus--...gimme a sec."

He licks his lips, one pass of his tongue over the chapped flesh, tasting of salt and dust. He knows he's going to mess this up, but he's still willing to try.

"I have the same broken bit in me," he starts, and like that the floodgates open. "Same problem, Sam. I feel the same way, but that don't make it right. I don't know what's wrong with us, and maybe I raised you wrong. Maybe I put this in you somewhere. Maybe you saw the way I looked at you and broke yourself down to fit with me, but I don't want that, Sam. I don't want _this_ for you."

"What about what _I_ want?" she asks quietly, after a pause, making certain he wasn't going to say any more.

"I know what you want, but I'm the older brother. It's my job to look out for you. This isn't looking out for you, Sammy."

"I'm not asking you to."

"You never had to."

They're silent then, for a moment, and Dean wants to kiss the back of her neck, all his good intentions bound up with his desire to be the one man in her life. He holds himself back, but only barely.

"...so that's it?" she asks with some kind of finality. "I want this, you want this, but we don't get to have it? We don't get a home, a mom, or any piece of normal, but we don't get to have even the one thing we _could_ have."

"You don't _want_ men, Sam."

She wriggles, turning in his arms and looking at him, and he goes too still.

"I don't want _men_ , but I do want _you."_

Dean's not sure what the distinction is there, but he wants it to be true. He knows how she feels about getting to have one thing, because the two of them are adrift in the world, alone without each other, and they could _have_ this. They could have that sense of peace and kinship, and all they'd have to pay to get it is their souls.

He studies her eyes, steely and uncowed, and he wants that -- he wants a partner that can stand toe-to-toe with him, a woman with an aim like a trick shot, and more than that, a woman like _Sam._ There's no other girl in the world for him, no one that could fill the greedy space she's carved out for herself inside of him.

So he kisses her, hands pressing to her back, and she surges up, pressing into him without any shyness or shame. He doesn't know how she can do that when his stomach is sick with oily guilt, knowing what he's indulging in, but Sam has always known what she wanted, and known that there was nothing she could do but go after it.

Even this.

The feel of her is intensely familiar and intensely foreign at the same time. In the course of his life, between changing her as a baby and bandaging every wound she's ever had rip through her, he's sure he's touched almost every inch of her body, but not like this. The way she's seizing his jaw is new, and the inside of her mouth is a country he's never been to before, something hot and wet and the opposite of the desert he's spent most of his life traveling. 

He can't go far, can't take too much, not right away. Just the kiss undoes him, frightens him in ways that ghosts and monsters and the creeping dark never have, and when he pulls back, he's shaking a little.

"You alright?" she asks, gaze flicking over his face, worried.

"Yeah, yeah, just...gonna take awhile."

She softens, but he sees a different kind of worry now. The fear that he'll take this back, and that makes him a little more confident. She really does want him, even if it's fucked. He lifts one hand to her wide cheek.

"Just wanted this a long time, Sammy. An' this, much as I want it...you know it ain't right."

"I know it," she murmurs, having proclaimed herself broken not too long ago.

"S'just..."

"A lot," she finishes. "We don't have to. And I don't...have to leave. It was just...I thought you were gonna pretend away what I said. That you were disgusted."

"I can't say that ain't there, but it isn't you I'm disgusted with. I raised you Sammy. I can't help but thinkin' I made you to be a person I could call mine."

"Maybe," she admits, and he flinches. "But I fought you on every little thing I disagreed with. Wouldn't have taken this on if I didn't want it, too."

It's true, of course. His girl is headstrong, to the point that it drives him up a wall, and she'd never just give over to him. He still worries though. He's her older brother, and it's what he's been doing almost all his life. He tips her chin up.

"Tell me _why."_ It's something he has to know.

"Because you're the only person that knows all of me and doesn't find me lacking," she answers, disturbingly fast. "You don't--" She looks like she's struggling, and he wants to help, but she's right. She isn't a kid anymore, and she can do this by herself. "Because you're _Dean._ We're family, sure, but we've always been more than that. There isn't anyone else who could understand me."

"So I'm your last resort?" He can't quite manage to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

 _"No."_ She frowns at him. "You're looking at it upside down. Backwards. It's not that you're the last resort. It's that you're the only person who's been able to withstand all of this. You're in a class by yourself. It makes you... _more_ than all the others."

"You could be with Jess," he reminds.

"No, I can't." She looks like she regrets that fact, and Dean can't help but feel a small pang of jealousy.

"But you would be, if you could."

"Damn it, Dean..." She punches him in the shoulder, hard enough to hurt a bit. "How can you doubt yourself, as full of yourself as you are? It's like you're determined to be a complete pain all the time."

"So why do you _want_ that?"

"Because you're _my_ pain," she replies, quick and possessive, tugging him down into another kiss, silencing his protests effectively. The way she owns him settles him, and he realizes what Ruby must feel like under Sam's whispers and under Sam's hands. Tamed. For once with the gentle hand of an owner that won't lash out.

And Dean wants to be hers.

 

It doesn't go past kissing, thank god.

They bed down, together again, and Dean sleeps better than he has in awhile, enough that they wake up late and have to hurry, urging their steeds to pick up their hooves as they twist their way into Wyoming's thick forests. There's more game here, and more plants that aren't filled with spikes or poison, and Dean would be grateful for it if they had time to stop.

They're coming up to the first of the fabled churches, empty and new, hammered shut, and Dean knows they're only a few minutes away from their dad, and, possibly, the end of their age old pilgrimage. That should be what's on his mind. Instead, it's Sam.

He can't kid himself. This'll be it for them. There's no way a brother and sister settle in together as anything but a commitment. This is no courting, and Dean's no suitor. Sammy's just about asking for his hand in marriage, and if he'd give it to anyone, it'd be her. That, though, always makes him think of their father, and he winces from more than just the choppy gait of Cas's canter. He doesn't know what his dad wants for his children. John Winchester's never been clear on that. Always was clear about the hunt, about the monster they were chasing, about the memory of their mother and their training, but he'd never mentioned what'd happen _after._

Dean can't see their dad doing anything but hunting, and he supposes that he will as well. He's grown up chasing monsters and criminals, and it's all he's good at. Sam's prospects are blown. There's no way anyone will marry her at her age, and it's not like she'd want some controlling asshole being her lord and master. The thought alone makes Dean growl in his throat like a rabid dog.

Out here in the dust and the dirt, the west doesn't have much friendliness for a woman who chooses to walk and talk like a man, or any woman who doesn't want to settle down and push out kids. Sam's never much liked their lifestyle, in and of itself, but she likes the fact that it allows her to live a little closer to the life of her choosing. 

It's insane that he's actually contemplating this. Getting Sam some kind of...home. Something small, something he can afford by chasing down bounties. Somewhere that they can use as a home base. Somewhere with a bed that belonged only to them. Somewhere where his sister could have books of her own, stored and cared for.

Dean's never been bad cook. He could play the little missus without much trouble.

If he weren't burned and freckled to all hell and back, he's certain he'd flush red at the stupidity of his thoughts. A grown man, fantasizing about a little house of his own. 

He's grateful when they come across the railroad tracks, following them for a few miles until they come to the second church, scoping the area out and finding it as deserted as the first building they found. It's early evening by the time they come to the third structure -- not a church, not yet. Mostly just a carved out foundation and planks of bright wood hammered together, a few sections of wall constructed, but most still open to the elements.

There's a few people working still, but Dean's eyes go straight to the tall black horse pawing absently at the ground, white socks around each of its hooves, lowering its great head to chomp on the grass, yanking it up with vicious jerks of its head. Dean can't help but grin, swinging off of Cas and leading him over to an errant post and tying his reins there.

"Hey girl," Dean murmurs, letting his hand rest on Sierra's flank, patting his way up the sleek body. Sierra doesn't look up from her meal, nostrils blasting out hot puffs of air as her jaw works. Dean doesn't think he'll ever love a horse like he loved Impala, as vicious and headstrong as he'd been, but Sierra's the stallion's only offspring, and she's still got all his fire, and just as massive to boot. Dean gives two hard pats against the heavy muscles of the horse's shoulder

"What're you doin' sniffin' around the horses?" a sharp voice brings him up short. A tall, boney woman in pants and a stetson approaches him, as old as their dad, if not older, and her weathered face brooks no nonsense. Her hands rest plainly on her belt, thumbs loose and relaxed against the holsters for her two pistols. It's clearly a stance meant to threaten, casual as it is. She doesn't need to make a big gesture, or shout any threats. She looks like someone who hasn't taken shit from anyone in a long time, and Dean's not about to be one to break tradition.

"S'my father's horse," he responds quickly, then remembers himself and lifts a hand to briefly tip his hat down and add on: "Ma'am."

She sniffs once, and Dean's not entirely certain what he's supposed to read from that, but before he has a chance to think on it, the woman replies.

"So you're John Wincester's children, are you?" she asks, looking Dean over, then glancing at Sam. The woman leans back on her heels, hands still where they started, but her frame not straight now. It's a subtle distinction, but Dean's spent his life around gunslingers and hunters, outlaws and lawmen. It's the posture of someone no longer planning on having to shoot you.

"Dean," he introduces, then nods to his sister. "This is Sam."

"You can just call me the head of security here," the woman replies with a grey toothed grin, her uncombed hair dangling out from under her hat. "So I take it you're lookin' for your pop." It's less of a question and more of a statement. Dean gets the feeling that Rodeo Jane here isn't much used to asking questions.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies automatically. He can hear Sam tying Ruby up behind him, and there's a scuffle. When he glances over his shoulder he sees his sister rubbing at her hip, and it doesn't take but one guess and two heartbeats to know that Ruby's been putting up kicking.

Rodeo just has one partially grey eyebrow raised, thumbing at her belt with an amused look.

"Looks like you have a handful there. M'sure you boys could afford a better piece of horseflesh than that," she says, and Dean knows, instantly, it's the wrong thing to say. He goes a little stiff, because Sam has this tendency to get _mouthy_ , even when she shouldn't. Even when she's talking to their dad. Or when they're talking to a sheriff in the wake of Sam delicately removing a major's hand from her ass with a knife.

Predictably, Sam's expression grows darker and sets. 'Stubborn mule' is what Dean calls that face.

"There's nothing wrong with her," Sam says, as if the old scars and pockmarks aren't freely visible across Ruby's patchy pelt. "She's just tired. It's been a long ride. You'd be tired too, carrying a person and all their bags across the whole of the frontier. Ruby just gets--...She has problems, but she's a good horse."

Dean thinks 'problems' is an understatement.

Rodeo's eyes just spark amusement, the look of someone old enough to find humor in the flustering of the young, instead of frustration. She lifts a hand, nudging her hat back with the pad of her thumb.

"Well, then," the old woman growls out, lips curling upwards. "Let ne'er a man speak ill of her again."

For once, someone actually manages to get Sam to shut up, the girl just standing there, blinking her big brown eyes. Dean decides he likes Rodeo Jane.

"C'mon now." She jerks her head back, indicating behind her. "Let me get Hosea, and we'll ride on out to your pop."

The Winchester siblings begrudgingly remount, and even Dean winces a little when he gets back in the saddle, his legs ready for a good long stretch, but they've ridden halfway across the west at this point -- no point in stalling when their dad is just a few minutes ride away.

Rodeo takes them on a convoluted path through the woods. Dean's been east before, had to deal with forests, and it's not like the frontier doesn't have its fair share, but they're sparser; thinner and easier to navigate. Rodeo has no problem though, never gets lost, even if there's no horizon line to be seen, buried in as they are amongst the trunks. Their horses pass over another set of railroad tracks, and Dean frowns -- its a lot of crossings for such a small area, especially out in the middle of nowhere as they are, but it seems the stories he's heard about Colt are true. Not madness, exactly, but a man so far gone into the world of the Other that he sees half in sunlight, half in ghost light. It's all a part of the legend though. Even those that speak of Colt's eccentricities do it with a hint of awe in their voices.

They finally break the tree line, though the clearing they enter isn't huge. It's a cemetery, a few fresh graves here and there, but mostly empty, a new wrought iron fence and gate set up. The woman guides them through the gate and up the center of the cemetery, to where Dean can see his father The man cuts a stony figure in the Wyoming air, more an etching of a person than a living creature, and Dean remembers this much. Just how _still_ their dad can be, like time and weather sculpted him from rock to wait and watch over the world.

For now, though, he is watching a hole in the ground.

When Dean brings Cas to a halt and swings down, he realizes quickly why their dad didn't bring Sierra with him. There's no post to tie the horses up in, and the branches of the trees are all either too high up to use or too small to really hold a horse back. Thankfully, Cas and Ruby are too exhausted to do much but lower their heads and nibble frantically at the green sprung grass. Dean winces a little when he sees Ruby uncaringly wander over a grave, but Rodeo doesn't seem bothered.

"A place for folks like us. Somewhere for hunters to lay down their load," she explains, wrapping Hosea's reins up around the pommel, and the horse is well trained. He stays in the same spot the woman leaves him in, casually resting on three legs.

"John," the older woman announces, approaching. "Found your little ones poking around the southwest temple."

Dean's expression almost sours, not liking being referred to as a little one _or_ being accused of 'poking around', but it doesn't last. John turns, eyes sweeping over Rodeo and then moving directly to his children.

"Sam," he says, nodding once, then flicks his eyes to his son. "Dean."

It's a simple greeting, but one Dean's used to. He moves forward, nodding to his father, and he hears Sam jog to catch up. He's used to hearing people refer to them as 'John's boys' or 'the Winchester brothers', but with their dad, they're always greeted like that. One name each, one glance each. It would be acceptable for Sam to embrace their dad, especially after a few months apart, but her trick of walking like a man extends to this, and no grown men embrace each other.

"You find anything in those books of yours?" the old man asks, and Dean knows that one's directed to Sam. It's not an odd question, and it wouldn't be a thing if anyone else asked, but Dean winces, because when it comes to his dad and his sister, they're the precursor to a fight.

Sam is just beginning to bristle when Rodeo speaks up.

"Your girl a reader?" she asks, walking up to that strange hole in the ground.

"Like you wouldn't believe. Wouldn't mind if she stuck to what mattered, but she likes to read all that nonsense from back east."

"I'm from back east," Rodeo says with an ugly toothed grin. John lets out one huff of a laugh.

"Yeah, but you got over it."

"Why're we here?" Sam breaks the little back and forth, skulking over. With Rodeo there, the fight is avoided. Sam doesn't yell in public like she does with family, but that doesn't mean she won't pout up a storm. 

"Come see for yourselves," their father replies, expression easy and relaxed, still faintly amused. Dean makes his way over, glancing down at the hole and edging around the other bodies crowded around it to get a look.

"Don't get too close," his dad warns, something a little like fear jittering through the amusement that had previously been in his voice.

Dean sees why almost immediately.

Just beyond the tips of his boots the world curls into itself, like a puncture, an old, festering wound that's breaking to abscess, the precursor to a nasty amputation. The ground slopes down, disappears into itself, and the grass peters out not too far in. Beyond that is a kind of light, something like fire, but burning yellow and cold. Dean doesn't need to get close to feel how cold. It's a shifting light, like a flickering flame, but there's no fire, only the light, and somewhere, somewhere deep down, near what Dean has to suppose is the center of the Earth, he can hear a never ending, wrenching scream, a thousand voices and a horrible machine all working together, metal grinding against metal. It's an endless sound, but quiet and far away. Dean can hear it on the inside of his skull.

"What _is_ that?" Sam breathes, and Dean wants to wrap her up, drag her away.

"That's Hell," John replies without preamble, the otherworldly light glowing a haunted circle into his eyes, staring straight down. "It's a door straight to Hell."

"Mother of God," Dean mutters, and almost crosses himself, even though his family isn't anything like Catholic, despite all the Latin they know.

John looks up.

"Colt's gonna seal it over. Make it so that the demons can't get out."

"Can't get out _here,"_ Rodeo speaks up. "There's more than one mole hill, John, and I can't fill them all in."

It takes Dean a moment.

"Wait, you--" he starts, head jerking up and preparing to put his foot straight in his mouth. Rodeo just gives him that same grin, too amused with herself, too impressed by her own guile.

"Sam Colt," she introduces. "Pleasure to meet you both."

Dean's just gawping like an idiot, and a damned uncouth one at that, so he's a little grateful when his dad reaches over and snaps his trap shut. Colt doesn't seem offended. He can see the tired lines worn into her skin, making her look older than she really is, but she also has this unflappable air to her. Unperturbed by the ignorant assumptions of the masses.

"Gonna build a cap over the hole," John announces, even though Dean is still stuck in a loop, trying to catch up. "Lock it down, and we'll see less possessions."

"That's...that's why you came here?" Dean asks finally, because Sam doesn't speak up. When he glances over at her he sees that she's even more rudely surprised than he is, her eyes unashamedly following Colt's every movement, jaw slightly dropped. It's uncharacteristic of Sam, usually so attuned to the whims of others, never wanting to put anyone out.

"No." John shakes his head, flapping his long coat back to place his hands on his waist. "Came here for the _key."_ His eyes fix on Colt. "For the gun."

"We've been over this, John. Can't give you a gun that I need to build the door. More'n that, you can't imagine that demons in the area are thrilled with the work we're doing here, and the rail lines and church points aren't finished enough to hold 'em out. I need that gun."

"I need it more," John growls.

"No, you need _revenge_ more. But everyone else needs _safety._ No one gets into this job for pure reasons, John, but it's still a job. We all come through the door looking for that cold meal, but the test of a true hunter is whether he'll give up that pleasure just to save the lives of others. An' if you'd rather run off with my one ace now, leave me flappin' in the wind and all the people within a hundred miles at the mercy of the pissed off hordes...then you ain't the man I thought you were. Didn't give you the research I did so you could use it to get your fool ass killed."

"I'll worry about my own--"

"And that ain't countin' the asses of your kids, an' all the other folk that are gonna be caught up in your shit storm." Colt's expression sets, not angry, but also no longer amused, no fear or hesitancy in her gaze. "An' I'll put you in your place if I have to."

People don't really speak to John Winchester like that, and the few that have usually ended up at the business end of a rifle. It was the very same kind of thing that ended the Winchesters' friendship with Bobby Singer over a decade ago, and Dean's waiting for the move, his dad asserting his place. Dean's used to backing his father's play, and he intends to now, but he's never before felt so damned iffy about the whole mess. It doesn't come to that, though, because somehow, surprisingly, John doesn't go for his gun. Tense as he is, he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything.

Instead he half turns, glancing at Sam and Dean, then back at Colt.

"Kids," he announces. "We should go." 

It's gruff and short, terse, weathered jaw set and stubble messy with grit and dirt but his eyes are clear with anger. Colt, though, stands square over a hole in the world, a passage to Hell, and stares them down with only the wind to move her. John purses his lips, but doesn't make a move. Instead, he turns and strides away. Dean, glad the confrontation didn't come to guns, takes a couple steps back, as if Colt were some coward that'd shoot them in the back. He hopes she understands that it's just habit.

When Dean turns to follow, though, he sees his sister is still standing there, caught.

"Sam--" he started.

"Dean, but she--"

_"Sam."_

Sam swallows, wide eyes roving over Colt's tall frame, and the older woman spares her a short glance, a mere flick of the eyes, noted only by the way light changes across the surface. Finally, though, Sam nods. She draws herself up straighter and stumbles away, following Dean.

"Winchester," Colt calls out casually, as if nothing happened, and there's no doubt as to which Winchester she's speaking to.

John stops at the edge of the tree line, glancing back.

Colt pulls something out of her belt and tosses it at him. John doesn't wince, just reaches up and plucks the item out of the air, pulling his hand back down to look at it. A small, compact piece of silver, few imperfections and polished clean.

"Your bullet," Colt continues, leaning back on her hips. "Think of it...like a promise."

One side of her mouth curls up, like she's not baiting an angry bear, and it appears all the legends about Sam Colt are true (except the obvious one), but instead of letting out his easy fury, John huffs a hollow laugh, like it's a joke, and tucks the bullet into his pocket. Dean tries to wrangle both of their horses _and_ Sam, and somehow manages it, letting John ride behind him on Cas after he gives Sam an insistent hand up onto Ruby's back.

Sam guides the horse forward on unthinking actions. Her head is turned, and until they move into the trees and the last of the cemetery is swallowed by trunks and ugly bent branches, Sam is looking for Colt.

\-----

There's a lot on their plate, demons and destiny and a gate to Hell, but it still takes Sam and John all of twelve hours to get into a knock down drag out screaming match, and if Dean weren't a grown man, he'd be tempted to cover his ears.

He leans back against his chair in their cramped quarters, and it doesn't seem likely that John or Sam even know what they're saying at this point. It's never really been much about making a statement with those two. Sam isn't the kind of daughter John Winchester wants, and John isn't the kind of father Sam's looking for, and the two of them keep trying to shove square pegs into round holes, getting madder and madder when they just don't fit.

They're up in Sweetwater, staying at the inn on Colt's dime, because the woman just about owns the town. She might not be interested in giving them the gun that John's so determined to get his hands on, but she doesn't seem to be a bad sort. Dean still kind of likes her, despite the way she pisses his dad off.

Okay, a little bit _because_ she pisses his dad off.

He loves his father, but that shit's still kind of funny -- an old gunslinger with tits having John Winchester under her boot. The image alone is pretty great.

"You didn't think to _tell_ us any of this before we got here? All this research you have on mom's killer? That it's a _demon?"_ Sam's voice breaks though his thoughts.

"How the hell do I tell you _anythin',_ Sam? You run off whenever you like to wherever you like and leave Dean and I in your dust."

"Bullshit. This isn't about me not being here. It's not like you told _Dean_ after all--" Christ, Dean hates when he gets pulled into these things. "--and it's not like this is the first time you've kept secrets from us."

"I know what I'm doin', Sam. You have to trust me."

"How can I _trust_ you, Dad? You've never given me any reason to believe in you, and you don't trust me any more than the next guy on the street. Trust breeds trust."

"Yeah? Well, I hate to break it to you, little lady, but there ain't no trust gonna grow with someone who turns their back on their family every time the opportunity presents itself."

"Goddamn it, Dad!" Sam's voice goes higher, more hurt, and Dean sighs, because no matter what happens with these fights, he always has to be the one to pick up the pieces. Sam grips her hair, hanging her head as she scrubs her hand over her face. "I'm not turning my back on you. I'm just--I need--"

John steps up close, too close, and Dean starts a little. This is new.

"God and the world know what you "need", Samantha, and the devil knows too."

Sam's head jerks up, pretty eyes bright and too wide, staring at him. Dean pushes himself to his feet, but he feels like he's going in slow motion.

"Don't you dare blame this on me," John warns. "I did what I could, the best I could. I did--"

"Dad," Sam starts, but Dean's not about to let it go any further, stepping in between them swiftly, and they were up in each other's faces enough that Dean's presence forces John to take a step back.

John doesn't say anything. Just looks him over, analyzing everything. Dean knows more than most that John Winchester may look like a dull witted gunslinger or too old cowboy, but the man in there is as smart as a whip, and nothing escapes his notice.

Dean knows, logically, there's no way his dad could know how he feels for Sam, but for a moment, feeling like a fruit with skin peeled back, he feels panic surge in him.

"Dad," he starts, shaking his head. "Don't."

This isn't about him, after all. It's about Sam.

"Don't talk about her like that."

"She's my daughter," he says, in anger, and the _I'll talk to her however I want_ is implicit, but then John's features change, go even the slightest bit softer. Sam'd never see it, but Dean does. "She's my _daughter."_ It's different the second time, too full of love.

Sam'll never hear it. Dean always does.

"...and this ain't good for either of you," Dean says finally, as diplomatically as he can. He knows Sam wants him to come down on her side, fight with her against dad, but Dean knows that'll be it for their family, if he ever does. It'll throw them from 'troubled' to 'broken', and Dean's twenty six, a grown man, but he's still not ready to toss his dad to the wind.

He's not staring his dad down, not exactly, but they've always been better at understanding each other than Sam, for all her empathy with people _outside_ their family. Finally, John's expression tightens back up, stern and impenetrable, and he just nods. Dean lowers the arms he didn't even know he had out. It wasn't like he thought John'd hit Sam. Hell, that would have been easier. Sam knows how to take a punch, and how to dish one out.

Words always hit her worse.

"Gotta ride up to Jim's," John says finally, the noise of a carriage pulling up coming from outside, uneven wheels on uneven dirt. "I want you two to stay on Colt's ass for me. She's sick enough of me already, but maybe you two--"

"You're pushing us out. _Again,"_ Sam speaks up, recovered enough to rely on her indignancy. 

_"Sam,"_ Dean warns, stepping to the side to look at her. Her cheeks are a little flushed, but her brow is set. She glances at Dean, then takes a deep breath. When she looks back at their dad again, she's got herself a little bit under control.

"Dad. You trained us for this. All our lives. Why're you shutting us out? If we could help, if we could get this hunt done... We could be _free._ All of us."

Dean wishes it were that easy. He knows what he's good at, what he's good for, and it's just the one thing. Their dad has been chasing this killer (this _demon_ ) endlessly, and it's not like Dean doesn't want it dead just as much, it's just that for Dean, it's one more hunt. One among the many.

"I'm keepin' you two safe," John replies.

 _"Are_ you?" Sam takes a step forward, still too bold. "Because there's--" She goes still then, so sudden and strange that Dean jolts, feeling his stomach lurch. It's just a moment, a pause, surely. Except every bit of his soul that's been conditioned to watch out for Sam is whispering _something's wrong._

"Sam?" He reaches out, touches her shoulder, and her eyes are glassy. That hop-skip of fear kicks up higher, pressing against his lungs as he turns to face her fully, hands clasping her shoulders. "Sammy?"

Sam's body turns inexplicably cold, like a corpse, before blood seems to rush back in, life returning almost instantaneously, and she turns to look at Dean, whispering: "They're here."

Dean doesn't get a chance to ask her what that means, because the next second, all hell breaks loose.

First is the shouting downstairs and the muffled sounds of violence, unexpected. Dean and John both reach for their weapons, but Sam is slower, still in the midst of her...whatever that was. Something hits the door, tearing a hole into it with splinters flying, wood planks shattering as Dean raises his gun, looking straight down the sight.

"Winchesteeers," something hisses on the other side, and a woman _crawls_ through the opening, scraping herself over the jagged wood, tearing ugly red lines in her dress and skin. Her fingers clasp the doorframe, and she's watching them, neck bent backwards, as she crawls _up the goddamned wall_ and onto the ceiling.

"Down!" his father's voice commands and Dean drops instinctively, John's pistols firing one after the other at the woman-thing, skittering over the ceiling like a bug, mouth tearing open to dangle her tongue, her cheeks cut or ripped open, Dean can't tell.

Sam dropped with him, and Dean feels her out nearby, grabbing her vest.

"Window!" he commands through the gunfire. Sam stalls, then looks at him like he just appeared, like she doesn't know where she is, and that frightens the hell out of Dean. Not as much as that creature on the ceiling though.

He hauls Sam with him across the floor. He reaches out and grabs the rickety old desk chair, throwing it at the window, and as old as it is, it's still stronger than glass, shattering the pane as it goes flying outside. Thankfully Sam seems to have regained enough presence of mind to grab the sill, hauling herself out and jumping down onto the top of the stage coach. She leaves smears of blood behind on the broken glass.

Dean follows her immediately, landing with a thump on the wood, looking up immediately for their father. His concern is short lived -- or, at least, redirected -- when a hand grabs him. He twists, assuming it's the driver or passenger or someone who doesn't want people jumping onto their coach, but the eyes that confront Dean are pitch black.

 _"Shit,"_ he breathes out, staring at the demon.

"You got that right," it replies with a nasty grin, and throws Dean like he were a child.

"Dean!" Sam's voice comes to him as he pitches and tumbles through the air, landing with all the air exploding out of his lungs, rolling over and over through the dust. He can't _breathe_ , and his fingers scrabble through the dirt, trying to drag himself to a stop, trying to pull air into his lungs through all the dust that's been kicked up. His body finally seems to stop moving, though he's not sure the ground agrees with that, still tilting under him dizzily.

When he looks up, he can see Sam running to him.

When he looks up, he can see _something_ behind Sam. Something dark and tall and deadly, lifting the silver glint of metal, aimed for Sam's back.

He opens his mouth to call to her, to _scream_ , anything, because he can't watch Sam die. He _can't._ Physically. His eyes are stretched wide, because if he watches Sam die like this, bullet in the back and tumbling forward, he'd certain his body will wrench itself apart. Twenty two years of Sam isn't enough, isn't nearly enough, and he can't live with all the words in him that he never gave her. They're too heavy.

All those words, and the heaviest one he can't even get out, no air to yell _'No!',_ to scream her name, to do _something._

Then there is a _bang_ and Dean's heart almost thuds to a stop, but Sam isn't falling, just whipping around, to stare at the demon who'd been aiming at her, who is quaking, its body jerking unevenly, flaring up as if stuck by lightning, over and over, until it drops to its knees. There is no swirl of smoke, none of the usual fanfare. It just falls forward, face straight into the dirt, and goes still.

For a moment, everything in silent on the street.

Then Dean remembers his legs, remembers his body, and he scrambles to his feet, having the time now to get to Sam, reel her in. She's still just standing in the middle of the street like a damned fool, and once Dean manages to get his hands on her shoulders, rake his eyes over her to look for wounds, to look for blood (only her hands, thank god, only her hands), he follows her line of sight. Down at the end of the town a tall figure is walking out of the darkness, coat swirling around her thin frame.

"A gun that can kill anything," Sam murmurs, mostly to herself. Air is burning its way into Dean's lungs, breathing hard and trying to get his balance back.

It wasn't just a myth, or something their dad made up. It wasn't just some story that Colt invented. In her hand is a pistol, long and sleek, and Dean'd kill to get his hands on it, just for a moment, to slide his fingers down the metal. He's sure it would burn colder than Hell itself.

Then the street explodes into motion, Colt's body jolting as she lifts the gun, their dad's body flying out of the window and rolling over the stage coach. That _thing,_ all stretched limbs and grotesque form, is flying after him, obscene jaws spread wide and tongue lolling. The bullet hits it mid flight, the creature letting out a shriek, fire burning through it as it flashes bright, body tumbling over and hitting the ground like dead meat.

Dean starts forward but stops when he feels a jerk on his sleeve. He looks back, one of Sam's hands in his coat, the other clutching one of her pistols, taken from her thigh strap. Her face is set.

"Get the horses." 

Dean pauses, but a second later Sam is turning away from him, grabbing a canister of holy water from her belt, and Dean makes off for the stable. Behind him he can hear a commotion, the chanting of Latin and shrieks of a fight. That old familiar fear churns in his gut, the sure belief that his family is dying, but they can't work if they don't have some faith. He has to believe that John and Sam will be safe.

In the stable he pulls Cas and Ruby out, can hear Sierra pawing at her stall door. The horse's are jumpy, knowing their masters' work enough to know trouble, and it takes a little longer than usual to get them saddled and bridled. Ruby gets a chunk of his coat, her eyes rolling white and he curses, tying their reins to a post while he gets Sierra out, throwing on John's equipment.

"Going somewhere, boy?" a voice drawls, and Dean whirls around, reaching for his weapon.

"Ah-ah." A man stands at the entrance to the stable, his eyes black as night and he lifts a hand to wag his finger. "No sudden moves, or I tear you limb from limb."

"What's stopping you?" Dean grinds out.

"That eager to die, are you?"

"Anything's better than listenin' to you idiots blather."

"Mouthy one, aren't you?"

Dean smirks, all cold confidence, his hand still hesitating over the grip of his gun.

"That's what Winchesters do best."

"Oh, the way I hear it, there's _so_ much more you can do."

Dean's expression falls to a scowl, brow furrowed and set.

"The hell you mean?" he asks. The demon smirks.

"She belongs to us, Dean. You'll see that, in time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sammy. Didn't you know? She's an investment we made _years_ ago."

Dean's eyes widen, because whatever happened to their mother, it had happened over Sam's crib, but they'd always assumed that it had been about Mary. He'd never thought, even once, that it might have been about _Sam._

He doesn't get a chance to think about it, though, because a second later the demon lifts a hand and Dean chokes, feeling the pressure in the air rise, close in around him and the horses are screaming, rearing up in the air as much as their leads will allow them. Dean reaches for his throat, collapsing to his knees, but there's nothing there. Just his skin, and he scrapes at it, like he can tear a hole through and breathe again. The pressure increases, and now it's more than just lack of air -- pain pushes through, tight and burning in his windpipe, and he begins to cough -- tries to, at least, but its so tight, so pressed, that even the cough stops short, feeling himself gag. His eyes water, and he pounds his fist against the ground.

This isn't how he's supposed to go out. He promised Sam that whatever happened, when they went, they'd go together.

He's not dying in a stable, surrounded by horse shit and hay, another forgotten body left to the dark.

"Hey!" Sam's voice breaks through like a clarion call, and Dean can breathe. He sucks in air like a drowning man, throat feeling like it's taken a ten man pounding, but he looks up, vision watery, needing to see. The demon is on the ground, writhing and clutching its smoking face. It twists but gets stuck when Sam brings her boot down, pinning it to the ground by the throat. It's still screaming as Sam starts the exorcism, pointing her pistol at its face, covered by its grasping hands.

Dean stumbles to his feet at about the same time the demon goes screaming out through clenching fingers, dark and horrible, loud as the engine of a steam train, billowing upwards into the roiling sky.

"Shit..." Sam murmurs, looking upwards, and it's not hard to see why. There are clouds and there are demons up there, but it's hard to say which is which.

Dean's throat is on fire, but he turns to the horses, untying their reins, and Ruby is trying to yank hers out of Dean's hands, trying to run.

"Sam!" Dean yells, even though it feels like acid over his voice to do so. "Get your damned horse!"

He hears Sam murmuring to Ruby as she grabs the reins, narrowly dodging the horse's flying hooves. Dean pulls Cas around, feeling the tight tension of the horse's muscles, feet prancing, and Dean hauls himself up while Cas dances sideways, pulling himself into the saddle and reaching for Sierra's reins. He ties them around his pommel, the huge mare steadier than the other two, raised around demons and their infernal kin.

Sam has her hand on Ruby's nose, still murmuring her sweet nothings as the horse flicks her tail, but at least she isn't kicking up a fuss anymore. It takes Sam a few attempts to get up on Ruby's back, and the dark mare almost throws her right back off when she makes it, but Sam slams the reins hard to the right, making the horse turn in too tight a circle to buck or rear until she settles.

"You good?" Dean asks, too raw and hard pressed to joke or tease, and waits only for Sam to nod before pressing his heels into Cas's side, the white gelding quickly launching into a trot, pulling at the bit as he leads Sierra out with them.

Dean can't help but feel some apprehension once they get back onto the main street, some part of him always worried that he'll come around a corner to see his dad's still body, but today isn't that day. John and Colt are standing back to back in the center of the street, bodies laying around them, and Colt holsters her weapon as Dean rides up.

"The hell _happened?"_ he asks, now that they're in a calm.

"Never mind that," John replies, same as usual.

"Demons don't like when you start to cut off their bread an' butter," Colt says, looking them over.

"What happens now?" Sam rides up behind him, managing to stop Ruby's forward steps but not her movement. The mare dances around uneasily.

"Now?" Colt tips her hat back. "You three get the hell out of here."

"We can't just _leave_ you--"

"This is my town. I've kept it safe for fifteen years, I'll keep it safe another night. Besides, you three are just too damned juicy for the demons to give up. I'd be much obliged if you lead some of the heat out of here, rather than sticking around. I've no doubt we'd last the night, but the same can't be said for my people, and I ain't plannin' on leavin' 'em out here like bait on a hook."

"You heard her," John says gruffly, mounting up. "I want you two to head west, get the hell out of here."

"What?" Sam objects, her eyes widening. "What do you mean? Where're _you_ go--"

"Dean," John's voice cuts through, pulling on Sierra's reins as he begins to turn her, looking back at his son. "You take Sam and get out of here. I'll contact you when it's safe to meet up."

"Sir," Dean replies with a curt nod, ignoring Sam's 'wait!' from behind him.

"Colt..." John starts, looking down at the unmoving woman, cut from something older and greater, stronger than the demon hordes, stronger than the land itself. Her eyes are calm, unturned by the horror of the evening. Even John seems like something simpler, more transitory, in front of her. "...This isn't over."

"It never is," she replies, unhurried and certain, uncowed.

John doesn't hesitate, twisting Sierra's reins and the mare kicks up a gallop, hooves beating out of the town, headed east.

"Dad!" Sam yells, something like fear and indignancy mixing in her voice, calling out for him, but John's not turning back. Dean knows that well enough.

"Sam," he says, and she's not listening. "Sam!"

She turns her head, and he sees the blame in her eyes, blaming him, like always, for not taking her side. He rolls his eyes.

"Git!" he commands his horse, kicking his sides, and the gelding is more than happy to oblige, running out of town with the scent of the devil in his nose. Dean doesn't have to look to know Sam's following.

Even if it weren't for the beat of Ruby's hooves, he knows she's always got his back.

\-----

Dean gets his share of grief for it, of course. Always does.

There's never been a wrong or slight that Sam's ever sat on, and Dean puts up with her bellyaching while he unpacks the horses. They're coming off another hard ride, one of a hundred, and they're god knows where in the wilderness with as many miles between them and Sweetwater as they could get.

"You know," he finally says, put out. "Instead of yappin' you could find me some damned tinder and wood for the fire."

Sam looks at him, good and hard, eyes blazing, then she huffs and turns away. Dean's not pleased, no, but he can't help but smirk a little. Even when she's a pain in the ass, he loves his little sister like something burning. Can't even help it.

Sam's still pissed when she gets back with the wood, helping him get things set up and settled with cold silence, pulling out rations from the saddle bags while Dean starts the fire going. Wyoming has more water than the desert, and he and Sam are camped not too far from a stream. His sister goes to fill their canteens, returning when Dean has the fire stoked warm and glowing. The horses are tired, all their fear run out of them by the ride. They're tied up now, saddles off, and Dean watches Cas having enough lead to roll over onto his back, wriggling against the grass with his legs in the air until he goes boneless, collapsing over onto his side and just laying there.

Dean smirks, watching him.

He and Sam eat in silence, and for awhile she smolders, but even with her love of being put out, she's as worn as the horses are, and it slips away as they both stare into the fire. Dean hasn't bothered to remove his hat, as useless as it is during the night, and even when he remembers it, the energy it takes to raise his arm seems like too much. Instead he commits it to lifting his canteen, taking another swig of water. His throat is a bit better, but the water is still a cool relief. Out of it as he is, and as loathe to move as he is, he still doesn't feel tired, and Sam hasn't unfolded her blankets. She's sitting like him, still and captivated by the fire.

Nothing is said for a long time. Dean's not sure how long. His mind is too noisy, too caught in spinning circles, to measure it. It's Sam that finally breaks it, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

"Do you think she's like me?" Her voice is soft, a lot softer than the yelling, and Dean's grateful for that, though his brow furrows, perplexed.

"Who?"

"Colt," Sam clarifies. She glances over at Dean. "Do you think she's like me."

"I think she's like you in a _lot_ of ways."

"No, I mean, _like_ me."

"Sam."

Sam looks down at her knees, nose almost buried in them as it is. Her short hair shifts after a second of hesitation, wary of gravity's charm, and curls against her temple.

"What I mean is...Do you think she lusts after her own sex too?"

"I wish you wouldn't put it like that," Dean sighs.

"How _else_ should I put it?"

"Sam. I've watched you your whole damned life, and you fall in love like you can't help it. As far as I can tell, you _can't,"_ he adds grumpily. "The few times you've let me hire you a working girl, you walk out of the room with a face like a man who just drank mud after years in the desert and is ashamed to admit it. You've never been looking for the quick fuck. You _want_ something, and okay, it's with a girl. And...okay, I'll admit, it's weird. But you gotta stop talkin' about you like you're some kind of sin."

"You're forgetting the part where the only _man_ I want something with is my brother," she adds, self-deprecating.

"I ain't forgettin'." Dean hopes to hell her reminder doesn't make him go a bit red, cursing, not for the first time, his freckled skin. "I'm just...avoidin'."

She smirks a little, still not looking at him, but he can't help but grin a bit, encouraged.

"Point is," he continues. "Sure, your targets might be kind of messed up, but there's nothin' wrong with your aim. It ain't lust. It never was. Not with any of the ones you really wanted. So stop talkin' about it like you're worse'n I am. Me givin' a woman a quick fuck is not _better_ than you wantin' to settle down and have a pretty little house with a girl you love. It just ain't."

Sam's hands work at nothing, shifting over her clothes and brushing the dirt. 

"That's the thing about you, Sam." He's watching her in her silence, her self imposed repose, and it's the fact that she _wants_ to be better, even when there's nothing wrong, that makes his heart kick up, stupid and foolish in his chest. "You ain't perfect, not by a long shot. You're stubborn, and annoying, and a know-it-all. You're always puttin' your shit on other people, and then takin' other people's shit when you shouldn't have to deal with it. But you're always lookin' to be something better. You're always searchin' for some better world."

It's a cheesy line, and he knows it, surprised by how much he means it, but she doesn't laugh, and he doesn't have to try and protect his masculinity. Instead she just looks at him, turning her head towards him, cheekbone brushing her propped up knees. She's curious, something just this side of hopeful, but still hurting.

"What about you?" Her voice is soft, a tone he's not unfamiliar with, but not one that's usual for her. In this moment, she gives him a piece of her vulnerability, whatever trust she has left in her. "What do you search for?"

Dean smiles, a grim stretch of his lips, not an expression of mirth.

"Sammy, that's the difference between you n' me. I'm not the guy who looks for anything more than his next warm meal and making it through the next day. I don't search." 

He's never made a secret of it. Sam's a better person than him. For Dean, it's been the best part of his life, to do whatever he can, whenever he can, to get her just a little bit further. She's the part of their family that deserves to get out of this in one piece. If Dean can do that, if he can just get her safe and whole, his life'll have been worth it.

Her eyes go a little wide, like she's seeing that, like she's seeing something in him. He doesn't squirm or look away or try to deflect. He's too tired for that. Too tired to fight or move when she comes for him, when she creeps across the damp grass towards him, slight hands on his shoulders and a leg tossed over him. She straddles his hips, rests her weight back against his thighs.

He remembers when she used to sit on his lap as a kid. It should jolt him, should be incongruous with this image, his hands coming up to her waist, holding her, but it doesn't. It's just Sam, the whole of her, from a squalling infant in his arms in the heat of the fire, to this woman, tall and strong, as strong as him and as covered in the grit of the day. A woman with rough, callused hands, who rides a horse like a man and wields a gun as well as any trick shot. A woman who can keep up with him, ride as hard and as fast as he can, and who, maybe, maybe won't leave him.

His hands smooth up her sides, over the leather of her vest, the rumpled creases, the curve of her body, to the only slight swell of her breasts. Unbound, but still small. She doesn't shirk away, just hitches a breath. He looks at her face, and she's looking at him.

This is his sister, and he just rode hard from a hole to Hell, running to escape it but he's going there anyways when he pulls her in, lips to his and rolls them over, pushes her into the loam.

There's not a bit of her he doesn't know, even if this is new. 

Nothing is a surprise as he takes her clothes off, as he uncovers her inch by inch, finds her skin and finds every scar. He traces them with fingers that are only slightly unsteady, sucks in a breath only when she reaches for him, pushes his coat from his shoulders and knocks his hat away. She's nothing like any girl he's ever been with -- not just because she's his sister, but because she doesn't ask permission. She's as bold as him, and he'd be lying if he said that wasn't part of the appeal.

He'd be more scared, more worried of ruining her, if she didn't control him as much as he did her.

They take their time, don't rush it, because there's nothing out there now but the Wyoming wilderness, and they've no where to be. This is more important than anything Dean's ever done, and he doesn't want it to be over. Even if he can have this again, he wants to make it last. 

They don't talk much, all the words already spoken, but when they're both bare and pressed together, her voice stills him for a moment.

"Can we not--....?" 

She doesn't finish the question, but he understands. Sam loves him, wants him, but his body isn't the body she's used to, and it's not his cock that she wants. He nods, understanding.

"Course." Being with her is more than being inside her. He doesn't need that to call it sex.

He brings her off with fingers, tastes the skin of her shoulder when her muscles lock and she comes to her completion, and he shivers, the sound of her voice in his ear a strange juxtaposition -- the sound of sex on the most familiar voice in the world, the sound of _Sam_ and the sounds of the bedroom mixed in a cocktail Dean can't call anything but good. When she's loose and pliant, she drags him in, clenches her fingers against his ass as he grinds against her, nails pinching flesh and he releases between her thighs, the best thing he's ever felt.

He's still scared of this, when the rush of sex has passed, when he's back in his own mind and resting against her chest, his head pillowed there. He's still scared of her leaving, or of hurting her, fucking her up beyond repair. He's still scared of their father looking at them and just _knowing_ , and, Christ, he's glad she didn't want him in her, because he didn't even think about it, but then he'd be scared of children that had no right to be. He's scared, more than all the rest, of that still, soulless look on Sam's face and the way she whispered _'They're here',_ the way the demon spoke of owning her.

He's scared for his family, and tomorrow, and whatever new fucked up shit it brings him.

But Sam pulls him close, says 'shh', and he shuts his eyes.

He's tired, more than he even thought, now that his body is lax and tired, and her skin sticks to his. He reaches for a blanket, pulling it over their bare forms, as if he could hide their sin from God's eyes.

Tired, scared, but there's something else beneath that, something that he doesn't feel often enough for him to know it well. The sky is beginning to lighten, dawn coming in and the horses sleeping around their camp fire. He doesn't know what to do with contentment when he feels it, because the first thing he thinks is _'what do I do when this ends'._ His life has never offered guarantees, and he's always been okay with that, accepted that as what has to be given up to keep people safe, to give them the stability he's never had. But this...This is something he _wants,_ desperately, and he can't imagine surviving letting it go.

He's never asked God for anything, but if he ever did, if he could ever bring himself to kneel and pray like the Pastor taught him, he thinks he just might ask for this.

"Go to sleep, Dean." Her voice is soft, but a command nonetheless. He glances up, looking at her. Her eyelids are dipping, but she brings a hand up, running it through his short hair, fingers pressing to his scalp. "You found me."

He blinks, stares, doesn't know what she means or why her words hit something in his gut.

"You found me," she repeats, and he presses his face to her neck, heart and lungs working through that pale channel, and shut his eyes. It's just the damage the demon left, that pain in his throat, that hard thing to swallow around. It's just the bruise of being choked.

He moves his arms, holding onto her, gripping her tight, because he never knew he'd been looking.

He never knew he'd been looking for home until he felt it pull him in, until he felt its arms around him and skin beneath him. 

Until Sam clutched him close and called him hers.

**Author's Note:**

> Heaven is High and the Earth is Wide deals with a lot of different issues, and some of them are touchy enough that I wanted to make some things clear. 
> 
> **Sam's gender identity:** First off, Sam is cisgendered in the fic. She is and wants to be female, though she is a tomboy. She feels pressured into being more than a tomboy, though, by the society she lives in. 
> 
> **Sam's sexuality:** Sam is a 5 on the Kinsey Scale. This means she's homosexual with some heterosexual leanings. Dean is not a magic gay curing cock in this story -- Sam has been incidentally attracted to men before, but never enough to pursue anything beyond 'Oh, that guy looks kind of good'. Dean is the only guy Sam has been more than just incidentally attracted to. 
> 
> There was originally a scene about this, with Sam being slightly attracted to a man in her past, but it got cut because the fic was from Dean's POV and the scene just didn't fit into the story. But I just wanted to make it clear that Sam's sexuality had not been _changed_ by Dean. 
> 
> **Dean's view on Sam's sexuality:** There is a point in the fic where Dean calls Sam sexuality weird or abnormal. This is because, no matter how supportive I wanted Dean to be, there's no way at that time, in that place, that Dean would have any reason to think that being gay was "normal". This is way before LGBT rights. Dean loves his sister, and doesn't see anything wrong with Sam loving other women, but he's still a product of his time, and doesn't quite "get it". 
> 
> I didn't want any readers to take that as _my_ position on gay rights. As an LGBT identified woman myself, I am obviously of the opinion that we're pretty grand ;) 
> 
> **Sam Colt's sexuality:** Another thing that got cut from the fic, but I loved too much to just ignore. Colt is a heterosexual woman. In my head, she has a little house husband back east who loves and adores her, and she wears the pants in the relationship. Colt goes around kicking demon ass and taking demon names, then goes back home and gives her husband flowers and rides him hard. Yee haw. 
> 
> **Also:** Apologies for any anachronisms in the text :) I did enough research to make things sound _passingly_ convincing, but I'm sure if you have any knowledge of the historical wild west, this fic will sound a mess. Sorry about that!


End file.
